


half of cinders, half of gold

by upperplanespatron



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Blood and Violence, Cinderella Elements, Claude never left Almyra, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Everyone Needs A Hug, Evil Rhea (Fire Emblem), F/M, False Identity, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Spoilers, I'm Bad At Summaries, Memory Loss, Millennium Festival, Mistaken Identity, My Unit | Byleth Has Emotions, Not Canon Compliant, Out of Character My Unit | Byleth, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Time Loop, no beta we die like Glenn, technically post-time skip?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:13:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25345243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upperplanespatron/pseuds/upperplanespatron
Summary: Each night, the cindered woman’s dreams whisper to her. They build mountains in her mind, pulling forward the memories that have long since been buried by time.Her dreams tell her of him, too, and yet he remains unremembered.[A claudeleth Cinderella/Time Loop AU mashup](Edit [July, 2020]: On hiatus. Thank you for your patience!)
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 11
Kudos: 17





	1. a royal decree

Dawn breaks against the horizon with uncharacteristic violence. There are no blushing pinks and no sparkling oranges. Today’s sun brings only red, deep and hostile and threatening as the color devours the remaining milky blacks of night. This new dawn drips so strongly in crimson that the sky seems to be at once both soaked in blood and fully consumed by some far-off and untouchable flame.

Byleth thinks the view is strangely beautiful, in a grim sort of way. Or at the very least, finds this gory sunrise fitting, all things considered.

The well-worn wood of the gallows creaks ominously as two men step onto the scaffold. One holds papers in his hands and the other has his face obscured by a dark hood. Both wear the emblem of the Church of Seiros emblazoned upon their tunics; both pointedly refuse to look upon the despondent faces of the people whose deaths their arrivals foretell.

A crowd gathers around the gibbet, but all fall silent once the representatives of the Church arrive. Some members of the crowd yawn tiredly while others divert their gazes and a rare few begin wordlessly praying. Emotions run paradoxically low. Perhaps the condemned are not known by those from a town so close to the monastery; perhaps the citizens have simply become numb to the public punishments. The air seems rife with the feeling of monotony and routine.

Three prisoners stand upon the scaffold: two men, one woman. They are so silent and still one may think them already corpses if not for the ways their chests quickly rise and fall with their panicked breathing. Each person is adorned in rags and covered with jewel-like bruises, their necks already wrapped tightly with scratchy rope. They are all blind-folded – a small mercy, Byleth supposes.

The Church official with the papers begins read. His voice is monotone and dull. “In the name of the Goddess and the Church of Seiros, we are here today to enact the will of our most holy creator. As per the command of Her Grace, Archbishop Rhea, we are called again to remember the fate destined for those who sin. To quote the Book of Seiros, part one, the Revelation: ‘As the Goddess’s sword, Seiros wards away evil. As the Goddess’s child, Seiros makes – ’”

A soft and whispered voice comes from the right of Byleth, though no one but the woman notices. “Do we know them?”

The sermon drones on, but Byleth does not feel compelled to pay close attention. She has heard this speech before. Instead, Byleth glances briefly to her side. The owner of the whispering voice, Ignatz, stands with his shoulder pressed against her own. His usually soft face seems severe in the harsh morning light, set harder than he deserves with fatigue and wariness. He fiddles nervously with one of the green tassels of his cloak.

Byleth does not respond immediately and instead sends her gaze across the gathered crowd. From one of the edges stands a ginger woman wearing the leather armor befitting of a lower-ranking Knight of Seiros. The villagers likely presume she is just that: one of the less important knights, sent by the Church of Seiros to observe the proceedings of relatively politically unimportant executions.

They would be close enough to the truth. Leonie is a squire – Jeralt’s only current squire, in fact – and a squire is near enough to a knight for the difference to mean little in this situation.

Leonie catches Byleth’s gaze and, knowing what she is looking for, shakes her head in the negative. Her low ponytail sways gently with the movement.

“No,” Byleth eventually whispers back to her companion. “None of them are ours.”

Ignatz sighs in relief, and immediately seems consumed with guilt for having done so.

The sermon is drawing to a close. “We can leave,” Byleth says to Ignatz, her words less a statement and more of a question. She wishes to give him the opportunity to depart before the killings.

While Ignatz may have a skill for causing death it is a skill he clearly dislikes. His heart is soft, softer than the world would usually allow, and he does not sit well with the early endings of life.

Byleth almost envies him for this. His bleeding heart is not something Byleth was ever allowed. It would be far more apt to say that she was born without a heart, if all hearts are to act like his does: she knows death well, and is largely unafraid and unaffected by its presence. That is not to say she is the empty shell of a person she had so many times been accused of being, of course.

She is simply numb.

She was once called the Ashen Demon because of this, a moniker coined by half-drunken mercenaries who had jeered at her practiced indifference until they saw how it allowed her to cut and tear through enemies with little pause.

Byleth does not see herself much like a demon, but does think herself very much like ash: once full of potential, only to be left in a burned state of half-being. Neither a full object nor non-existent. Simply cinders.

Ignatz takes a few moments to respond. The woman steals a glance at Leonie from across the square. The squire’s eyes are tired but hardened. She handles death better than Ignatz but does a poorer job at hiding her distaste.

Byleth grasps one of her hands in the other and gropes at her glove until she can feel the outline of her late mother’s ring beneath the fabric. The small piece of jewelry acts as something of a worry stone for her. Somehow the metal has not dulled with time despite the woman’s constant fondling.

“No,” Ignatz eventually responds, voice soft but determined. “We can watch. They deserve to be remembered.”

Byleth nods.

Eventually the rambling speech ends and the executioner releases the trapdoor built into the scaffold. The prisoners squirm and gasp for a few minutes before finally falling silent.

Their deaths seem almost anti-climactic.

Byleth turns to leave, but stops in her tracks when the man with the papers returns to the scaffold. “Now with _that_ nasty bit of business done with I can move on to the exciting announcements.”

This is the first Byleth had ever heard of an official giving announcements after something as morbid as an execution. Byleth looks towards Ignatz, then across the way at Leonie. Neither seem to know what is going on.

The Church official clears his throat. “It is my great honor to announce that Her Grace, Archbishop Rhea, has, in her endless wisdom, decided to hold this year’s Millennium Festival.”

At this the once-silent crowd explodes with noise. Most are excited, some seem annoyed, a few even appear angry, and yet all remain surprised. Byleth counts herself amongst the surprised.

Fódlan is consumed by internal conflicts despite the iron grip with which the Church of Seiros rules what was once three separate nations. The farms of the westernmost provinces have seen historically low crop yields – the threat of famine looms heavy. The lands which once were called the Leicester Alliance live in a constant state of war against Almyra, the latter having declared war on Fódlan after the Church attempted to conquer lands beyond Fódlan’s Throat.

This hardly seems a good time for celebration.

“Hush, now. Quiet, people. Quiet! I said **QUIET!”** The volume of the chatter lowers significantly at the man’s yelling. “Thank you.” He clears his throat, then reads again. “Celebrations will begin three days prior to the anniversary of the monastery’s completion, with a grand ball held each night in commemoration. All are invited to attend the daytime celebrations, though the grand ball is by invitation only. Her Grace will also be welcoming representatives from Al- _wait,_ this can’t be right.” The man mumbles to himself as he reads ahead and furrows his brow. Eventually he folds the paper and tucks it into a pocket. “Apologies, there seems to have been an error in the printing. Regardless, the Church of Seiros will be holding celebrations in a week’s time. There are no other announcements. May the Goddess bless you all.”

The two men step away from the gibbet and the change in atmosphere is immediate. The townsfolk erupt into conversation once more, chattering excitedly amongst themselves like clucking hens. It nearly feels as if they have all already forgotten about the corpses that yet swing upon nooses in their town square.

Byleth picks her way through the slowly dispersing crowd. Ignatz follows close behind her. Leonie, her arms folded and face serious, nods in short acknowledgement as the two break away from the assembly.

Leonie grumbles lowly once her companions are close enough. “Well that was… _something._ ”

Ignatz adjusts his glasses. “Did you know about the festival announcement, Leonie?” His tone is non-accusatory, but the ginger woman seems mildly offended regardless.

“Of course not,” she bites. “I would have said something if I did. Besides, they barely tell me _anything.”_

“Ah, right. My apologies. I didn’t mean to imply… I mean, I had just assumed, since you’re…”

Leonie sighs. “I know. It’s fine, Ignatz.”

Byleth glances at the creeping sun. “We should return. Someone will notice if we’re gone too long.”

Ignatz nods. “Right. Of course.”

“Sure thing.” Leonie stretches, then sighs deeply. “Back into the monster’s den we go, I guess.”

~ ~ ~

Byleth is technically not allowed to travel beyond the monastery’s town.

She is something of a caged bird to the Archbishop, a play thing she teaches tricks and feeds so long as it stays politely within its own jail. Byleth is not sure what prompted her to be kept at such short length, though it did not take Byleth long to realize her cage’s proverbial door is never left locked.

Truly, she can go wherever she pleases, so long as she is not caught.

Byleth sits behind Leonie, squirmed into a saddle too small to comfortably hold two people. Her arms loop tight around Leonie’s waist to keep from falling. Byleth is not allowed a mount, and most would find it suspicious if she requested one or stole some steed from the stables. Their solution works well enough. The squire is strong, both physically and in her talent for riding, so she can easily support them both.

Byleth keeps her hood up and low against her face. The three are quiet as they make their way down the road towards Garreg Mach. The path remains hauntingly empty despite the slowly lightening day. The sheath of Leonie’s borrowed sword (“ _My spear won’t fit with the two of us riding,”_ the squire had told Byleth hours prior) clinks gently and awkwardly against the metal loops of the saddle.

Officially, it is illegal for those who do not work directly for the Knights of Seiros or as town guards to own weapons for anything other than hunting. Officially, Byleth does not even have a weapon – only dulled and wooden things deemed impossible to truly cause injury with and thus appropriate for her use in instruction.

That is _officially_ speaking. In reality Byleth has two daggers strapped tight against her thighs, hidden by the long skirt she has taken to wearing when outside the monastery walls.

She much prefers pantaloons, though those do a poorer job of hiding blades.

“We won’t be back before the sun fully rises,” Ignatz notes. It is the first time any of them have spoken since leaving the village.

There is much to say, of course. There is much to discuss. Yet public places are not safe for what would be a discussion of rebellions and spies and warfare. The road may be empty, but a fool need only slip once to break his neck. Better to be patient.

“If anyone asks where we were I can say I found you in the woods while doing my rounds,” Leonie offers quietly. “Saved you from a wild animal or something.”

“I’d never be allowed outside the monastery without an escort again!”

“Better than the alternative.” _Better than if the Church finds out you’re sneaking out to help a rebellion,_ she truly means.

Ignatz swallows hard. “That’s… true.”

Leonie’s steed is strong and walks with a comfort and ease which Ignatz’s mount lacks. The man had only managed to snag a horse from the monastery stables by telling the horsemaster that he needed to hunt for some obscure plant or another for a painting commissioned by the Church. Despite the fact that Ignatz is a horrible liar the story he spun had worked, though his reward was the one mount that would not be missed in its absence: an old, limping plow horse that was likely mere days away from being butchered for meat and glue.

Still, the movements of Leonie’s horse are almost comforting in their steadiness, and Byleth lets her head drop and rest against the squire’s broad shoulders. Leonie does not respond to the gentle press of the head against her back, to which Byleth is grateful.

Her eyes burn and her body aches with fatigue. Sleep has been hard-fought as of late, running from her most nights because of the constant anxieties playing out in her head. Even when she is able to sleep her slumber is restless and Byleth often wakes long before dawn, sweating and screaming from nightmares that fade from memory as soon as they force her back into wakefulness.

Byleth always finds herself shaking violently upon these horrible awakenings, sobbing and so nauseous that she sometimes must run to her chamber pot and empty what little remains in her stomach. These emotions are strange and strong and while she never remembers what tormenting dreams force her to respond with such lurching physicality the awful feelings present upon waking and always stick to her skin and ribs for the rest of the day, thick and horrid as pitch.

“They’ll know you didn’t fight an animal,” Ignatz eventually speaks again. “You’re not bloodied.”

“Good thing there was a stream nearby to clean up after the fight,” Leonie offers flatly.

“The nearest stream is five miles east of where I told the quartermaster I would be.” While he despises combat, Ignatz has a strong penchant for geography.

“I don’t think they’ll care that much, Ignatz.”

“They might.”

“We found a well, then.”

“What about the Professor?”

The title seems cruel, even when spoken with respect. Byleth is much more a keeper of prisoners than a teacher.

Byleth voice is slightly muffled when she speaks, blocked by her thick cowl and Leonie’s leathers. “I will enter the monastery through a back way. We never saw each other.”

“But if someone notices you’re not in your room – ”

“I will say I took a walk.” Byleth bites a sigh.

Ignatz takes a breath in a likely attempt to espouse another _what-if,_ but is quickly silenced by the sounds of galloping horses in the distance. Byleth does not lift her head from Leonie in case these riders may recognize her face.

The new riders pause briefly to bid them good morning – paying special attention to Leonie, which is unsurprising considering her affiliation. Their gruff speech marks them as workers in all likelihood, and they chatter briefly about the news of the festivities in an attempt to draw more information out of the squire than she actually has. Ignatz responds sweetly and Leonie tersely, both of them trying to hurry their unwelcomed company along. No one seems to notice Byleth.

Byleth’s eyes grow heavy. She feels a dropping pull in her stomach, like the feeling of falling when one is at the cusp of sleep. She is suddenly drowsy, so _incredibly_ drowsy, as if she cannot stand being awake for even a second longer. Byleth fights the feeling with little success and so she is pulled down and down and away from wakefulness. She wraps herself tighter around Leonie and breathes in, once, twice, and then fully loses the fight and begins to slip into sleep.

Before she fully falls into dreaming, Byleth swears she can hear a voice. The voice does not belong to Leonie, nor to Ignatz, nor to the new riders who had begun to leave before the siren call of sleep did Byleth in. This new voice is shrill and girlish and strangely familiar.

 _“Finally!”_ A sigh. _“Perhaps this time you will actually remember.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted to write a Claude/Byleth Cinderella-inspired fic for since at least six months now, but every time I sat down to write or plan the story fought me hard. Apparently, all I needed to do to fix that was totally re-write canon lol
> 
> I may post the timeline for this AU at some point for reference (since I changed a good amount about the plot progression), though I hesitate as it should still be brushed upon in the story at some time or another. We'll see.
> 
> (Also, the chapter length I put is just an estimate! There's a possibility I'll add more or decide on less.)


	2. memories, long forgotten

Byleth dreams.

She dreams of battlefields and fights uncountable, dreams of creaking war tables and scarred hands. She dreams of crests and weapons, of dragons, of her students. She dreams of fluffy white clouds, bright with possibility; dreams of an azure moon hanging low and menacing in the sky; dreams of a crimson flower which blooms despite adversity; dreams of a thick and peaceful silver snow which blankets the world.

In each there are glimpses of moments: glimpses of a life so real they feel more memory than dream. Byleth knows somehow that these glimpses are of her own life, though this is impossible as she cannot remember doing any of what is presented to her by her own mind.

 _“Again and again you try,”_ says the girlish voice which breaks into the visions, _“and yet, you are never satisfied with your endings.”_

Byleth wishes to speak back, but the scenes she re-lives are linear and the scripts pre-determined. She cannot break from their course.

_“You are unhappy yet again. Rather ungrateful of you, though… I must admit I cannot help but agree in this instance, however much I loath to admit it.”_

The dream fragments and scatters in a kaleidoscope of abstract colors which shimmer briefly before melting back into the darkness of sleep. _“A part is missing,”_ the voice continues. _“A part you once deemed precious. Can you remember? ‘Tis why you turned back time so far and with such frequency.”_

Byleth suddenly sees glimpses of moments not present in the dream prior. She sees a man dripping in golds and yellows, his eyes greener than emeralds and his smile brighter than the sun. He is familiar and yet Byleth cannot recall ever having met him before.

When she looks away from him Byleth immediately forgets about the man, as if her mind will not allow her to hold onto his shape.

_“I have tried to remind you and yet my reminders never stick.”_

The visions change slightly. She sees the man again, and then she sees his corpse. She sees visions of his corpse again and again, each different than the last in both brutality and setting. He is dead on war-torn fields, on blood-soaked village streets, on horses and wyverns and floating lifeless in canals. He is dead so many times over, and each time Byleth is racked with a grief so intense and so deep that she feels as if she has been split in two.

Byleth sees all of this, and then the dark of sleep returns and she forgets. Forgets the man, forgets his handsome smile and twinkling eyes, forgets his corpses and forgets the accursed lands on which he died.

All that remains is the grief.

_“Alas, it seems that even I cannot force a mind to remember.”_

Byleth’s body turns numb – the tingling, electric sort of numb that occurs when a limb lacks proper circulation. Then, she feels _emptiness._ There is nothing within herself, not even her own spirit. She is only a body, cruel and twisted in its bland humanity.

 _“Just know that we have tried_ so many times _, and yet we never succeed.”_

Images of the emerald-eyed man’s corpse flash again before her. There are so, _so_ many corpses. How many times has this nameless man lived? _How many times has he died?_

The images fade, and Byleth forgets.

The voice seems to sigh sadly.

The sensation of emptiness continues to blossoms coolly from Byleth’s chest. When she glances down upon herself she sees a deep and gaping wound upon her breast, placed perfectly where her heart should be.

There are no guts within the wound. There is no blood, no gore. There is no color; her insides are not red. She is not black or blue or silver.

There is simply nothing.

_“We are the same, you and I. I am the Beginning, and yet you crave an End. Perhaps, then, ‘tis not I who holds salvation for this timeline.”_

Suddenly: something. A flash of purple from deep within her body, and then, a feeling: a warmth, a sputtering liquid which fills the empty container of her flesh. This _something_ swells and swells within her and eventually pours, loud and rushing, from her breast.

The wound bleeds a painless golden ichor. Despite being thick as syrup the golden liquid flows like a waterfall, sparkling and brilliant and beautiful as it pools first around her toes, then her ankles, then her calves. The gold flows from her unstoppably, filling up the unending darkness and rising with frightening quickness until the liquid reaches her chin and brushes against her lips.

 _“You decided long ago that your Ending lies with him, even if you can’t remember the countless lives you’ve lived and re-lived in search of it. Yet_ I _remember. I remember the decades we have spent together in your pursuit of his survival. Take solace in this, if you can.”_

Byleth gasps once and holds her breath just before the gold covers her nose.

_“Find him. Find your Ending.”_

The gold covers her eyes. She cannot seem to close her eyelids, so her vision is overtaken by gold.

_“I will help if I can, but know this: this life is your last chance. I am too tired to send back the hands of time even once more.”_

Byleth’s lungs ache. She can’t hold her breath anymore. Her body arches as she gasps for air.

There is no air.

There is only gold.

_“Do not waste the time I have given you.”_

The last thing Byleth sees before waking is a deer with impossibly large antlers emerge from deep within the endless ichor and stare, unblinking, directly at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon FE3H: Claude is the one Lord that can survive almost all of the different routes.
> 
> Me, wanting to make this Angsty™ by completely ignoring both this aspect of canon and the fact that plot armor technically stops Claude from dying during classic mode GD route runs b/c of the forced player resets: Well yes, but actually, no,


	3. she sits in cindered shadows

Byleth wakes with a sharp yelp and a violent jolt which would have sent her tumbling from the horse if not for Leonie’s quick reflexes.

The day has brightened considerably during her nap, the red sun now nearly full against the dull blue sky. The air is warm - warmer than it should be for this deep into winter. Byleth sweats a bit under her heavy cloak.

Garreg Mach looms in the distance, grey and threatening.

The dream haunts the corners of Byleth’s mind. She cannot remember anything beyond the fact that it happened but its presence still winds around her like a venomous serpent: violent and threatening, taunting her to remember that which she cannot. And yet there is a comfort in the feeling, a familiarity in this breathless constricting. The dread, the hiss and the fangs of the serpent, are paradoxically well-known despite their persistent unfamiliarity to her waking body and mind.

“You talk in your sleep,” Igantz says gently. He squints his eyes against the sun.

“Anything interesting?”

Byleth can feel Leonie shrug her shoulders. “No clue. You mumble.”

There is a pause. Ignatz, well meaning, breaks the silence.

“You sounded sad.”

No one speaks again after that.

As the small group draws closer to the monastery and the road busies Byleth slips wordlessly from Leonie’s horse and ventures into the woods, snaking around trees and bushes and towards one of the hidden entrances to the monastery’s vast underground. Her body is heavy, and despite her nap she still feels exhausted.

Byleth rubs her eyes and hitches her skirt. Before long the distant walls of the monastery are before her, the colossal stone structure casting long swaths of shadow upon the ground. It eats the sun and so no plants may grow in the shade of Garreg Mach’s walls.

Byleth nearly grabs for her knife when she turns towards the location of a secret tunnel hidden beneath a patch of dead briar. There is someone waiting by the entrance.

The panic bleeds from her chest quickly enough. She knows the person. He is a friend.

Yuri flashes a smile from where he leans casually upon the stone. His hair and makeup are styled neatly and Byleth wonders how the man always manages to always look so pretty and well-kept.

“Look who’s finally decided to grace me with her presence,” he teases as she walks closer to him. He places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes briefly before letting his arm fall back to his side. “You’re a bit late, friend. I had half a mind to send one of the gang to see if those Church-goons had found you and finally decided that you were too much of a liability.” His tone remains light and so the sentence seems as if it should be a joke, but his words are serious.

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Byleth manages. Her voice sounds fragile and hoarse.

“I don’t have to do a lot of things.” He looks at her with concern. This means he wishes for her to _know_ of his concern. The man is nearly a better actor than Dorothea: if he did not wish for her to know, she wouldn’t. “How was the execution?”

Straight to the point, then. “The prisoners were not our people.”

Yuri breathes out deeply. “I shouldn’t be relieved about receiving a bad tip. I’ll have to re-evaluate my network, but… Still, that’s good to hear.”

Byleth nods weakly.

“Hey, are you alright, friend? You look a bit pale.”

“Just tired,” she assures him lamely.

Yuri does not look convinced but does not press. “Let’s get going, then.” He brushes aside some thorny branches with a boot and vanishes into the darkness below.

~ ~ ~

Time does not seem to bother with Abyss. Whether early or late, night or day, Abyss and its denizens will do largely as they please regardless of the hour. They are not governed by the same rhythms demanded of those aboveground by the courtly movements of the sun and moon.

As such, the underground is as animated as ever despite the early hour. Shoppers and sellers alike yell at each other from across the makeshift bazaar. A (probably) friendly fist fight rages on one of the upper aqueducts, but from where she stands Byleth can only make out a few unfamiliar members of the cheering crowd and the occasional splattering of blood.

Yuri wordlessly links his arm around her own as they walk. He smells faintly of vanilla, which makes a pleasant contrast to the scents of stale water and sickeningly-sweet mold which usually permeate Abyss.

“I received a letter from Goneril territory last night.” Yuri speaks quietly and with a tone of airy disinterest. Any who manage to gleam a word or two may think he talks of something as mundane as the weather, if judged by his inflection alone.

“And?”

“Balthus’s handwriting is still terrible.”

Byleth almost smiles. “I could have told you that.”

She stumbles slightly as she walks, her limbs sleep-heavy and clumsy. Yuri holds on to her tighter. Their physical closeness would not seem odd to those who glance upon the pair: Yuri has often flirted and seduced his way to information. To see him hanging upon the arm of some anonymous woman would hardly be a strange sight.

In reality, he is not so much hanging onto her as she is hanging onto him. He steadies her as he guides their walk.

“Holst has nearly fully recovered from his injuries,” he continues. “Normally I’d say this means the Duke will be returning to the front, but there will likely be a temporary cessation of all fighting on the Throat.”

A puzzling evaluation. Byleth cocks her head. “Why?”

“Haven’t you hear, friend? The Archbishop will be holding the Millennium Festival this year.”

“I have heard, though I fail to see how that will stop the fighting.”

“Then I take it you have _not_ heard of the peace talks that will take place during the final night of celebrations.”

“Peace talks?” Her voice is heavy with doubt.

“Peace talks,” Yuri confirms and flashes a cheshire grin. “With _Almyra_.”

Byleth turns to squint at him. “You are… joking?” Yuri hardly seems the type to joke about such a thing, but the alternative of the news being true seems even less likely.

Byleth has heard the Archbishop talk about the Almyrans before. The words she has for them are not kind ones: savages, brutes, heathens… Nothing that has indicated the Archbishop deems the supposed non-believers worthy of anything but death.

“Nope.” Yuri pops the _p_ sound more than is necessary. “Though I doubt the Archbishop intends to be quite as peaceful as ‘peace talks’ would imply.”

Silently, Byleth agrees.

They turn a corner and the air is suddenly thick with the smell of sour alcohol and sweat. From a few paces in front of them a cry of heavily drunken voices bubbles from the entrance of the Wilting Rose, accompanied shortly by some unknown patron’s intoxicated attempt at starting an off-tune round of a raunchy Kingdom drinking song. Byleth isn’t fond of the alcohol in Abyss; it tastes too strongly of sadness and desperation. Though perhaps that is why so many turn to the drinks of the underground instead of those of the monastery town above: Abyss does not smother their bitterness in sugar and honey and well-wishes.

Or perhaps it is simply because the Wilted Rose does not water down their drinks.

A woman leans casually by the entrance to the inn. Her dress is cut low and leaves very little to the imagination. Byleth is unsurprised, as prostitutes are a common enough sight by the Wilted Rose. While Byleth has never counted herself amongst their patrons they are easily identifiable by the fake roses woven into their hair or tucked behind their ears.

Byleth doubts the job pays terribly well (though does any job, anymore?) but Yuri’s fierce protectiveness of them is known well-enough. Those who mistreat the workers very shortly regret doing so: some deeply humiliating or dangerous rumors on the abusers will leak, or an unfortunate accident will befall them which leaves them bruised and battered and sometimes dead.

The workers may not be paid much, but they are treated well. Certainly better than the soldiers of the aboveground are.

“Good morning, Yuri,” the woman coos and pushes herself forward towards the two. She smiles. The flickering candlelight casts ghosts of brightness across her face but her deeply set eyes betray her true fatigue.

“Working the early shift, are we?”

The woman gives an empty giggle. “You know me. I live to please.” She reaches forward to take Yuri’s free hand and holds it within both of her own. “When can we expect to see you next, dear? You know my people do _so_ miss your little visits.” Her eyes are half-lidded and her voice drips with sensuality, though somehow these both feel markedly artificial. Byleth squirms regardless, a little uncomfortable and very much feeling as if she is interrupting something.

“I’m sure they do.” Yuri smiles a bit too widely.

The woman leans forward to whisper something into Yuri’s ear. Sweet nothings, presumably, though perhaps not: Yuri’s face stays trained in a look of only mildly entertained indifference.

Byleth looks away and desperately towards anything other than the two of them. The rats which congregate around scraps of stale bread in the corner of the hall suddenly seem terribly interesting.

The woman eventually pulls away. “We hope to see you soon, dear.” She winks, then turns and enters the Wilted Rose.

Yuri glances briefly at the hand the woman had held before turning that glance towards Byleth. “Apologies for that, friend.” He shrugs. “You know how it is.”

They begin walking again, leaving behind the drunken patrons and ravenous rats. Byleth isn’t entirely sure she does know, and so she clears her throat and asks: “Friend of yours?”

“Friend of _ours._ ” Ah. An ally of their network of rebels, then.

Byleth does as much as she can to fight against the tyranny of the Church. Yet she hesitates to fight in daylight, hesitates to fight with sharpened swords and bloodied knuckles: Rhea holds what the woman considers dear always within an arm’s reach. A hint of dissent and they will all be cut down in bloody swaths with the same casual ease with which one might topple a line of dominos. Instead, Byleth rebels more quietly.

Yuri is a near-master at their particular form of quiet rebellion.

If Byleth is the heart of their network then Yuri is the mind: he keeps tabs on others which she is unable to from her gilded cage, his words emboldened by his connection to her. Lord of the Underground he is indeed, sending letters to ex-nobility and once-royalty with an ease of his own position and a certainty in his knowledge that he will receive prompt replies.

It certainly helps that these people – the nobles and the royals alike – were all once Byleth’s students, of course.

“The little Church mice may play at chastity,” Yuri muses, “but take them from their chapels and they sing a much different tune.”

Yuri walks her towards the staircase leading to the monastery. They pass the Abysskeeper, who greets them a little too loudly. Yuri briefly waves. Byleth keeps her head down.

“This is where I take my leave, friend.” He takes both her hands in his own and squeezes. “Take care; you look rather like death walking.” He squeezes her hands again – this time much more tightly than is strictly necessary. “Death isn’t becoming on you. Better to chase that away, yeah? You’re good at that: shooing away death.” He winks and turns to leave.

An odd choice of words. Much more apt would it be to say she is skilled at bringing death, not at avoiding it.

Byleth watches him disappear and then walks slowly up the empty stairwell. The stairs are poorly lit, though the occasional sconce upon the wall casts the shadow of her body long and dark across the stairs. The only sounds besides the pops and sizzles of the torches come from her own shoes, which echo deeply against the stone.

When she is certain she is far enough away from prying eyes, Byleth glances towards her hands.

Yuri had pressed a note into her palms before he left.

She opens a folded paper. The parchment smells strongly of cheap perfume and the message is written hastily in a hand she is not familiar with. A note from the Wilting Rose woman, it would seem.

Byleth begins to read.

_The Church plans to assassinate the Almyran royals on the third night. Death by some sort of rare poison. A sword through the throat if the poison doesn’t work._

Byleth admits that none of this is terribly surprising. She rears on _._

_The Archbishop seems fixated on the King’s fifth son. I forgot his name. Something with a K._

Byleth reads the note a few more times, committing it to memory. There is something vaguely familiar about it all. _Fifth son… something with a K… something with a K…._ She traces her fingertips over the words. The gesture seems all too similar to a caress, and Byleth finds herself feeling uneasy upon the realization.

_Something with a K…_

Byleth reaches on tipped toes towards a lit sconce and catches the note on fire. She watches the paper singe and burn and flutter until nothing remains but cinders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sothis bless ya'll for being so patient with all this exposition lol  
> claude's coming soon i promise ;)


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